


Shrove Tuesday

by Chastened



Series: Shroveverse [1]
Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23566468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chastened/pseuds/Chastened
Summary: "On Shrove Tuesday, many Christians make a special point of self-examination, of considering what wrongs they need to repent, and what amendments of life or areas of spiritual growth they especially need to ask God's help in dealing with."It's February 2015. The day before Lent begins, Pete Buttigieg meets a stranger in Chicago.
Relationships: Chasten Buttigieg/Pete Buttigieg
Series: Shroveverse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2061138
Comments: 92
Kudos: 77





	1. i.

After he pulls into the bank parking lot, he cuts the engine. The sky is slate and the snow is dirty and frost haunts the corners of his windshield. He sits alone for a while. Finally he tilts the rearview mirror and looks himself in the eyes. The late-day winter sun has drained them of color and accentuated his skin’s every imperfection.

He lets out a breath, reaches over to the passenger’s seat for his well-worn briefcase, and steps into the sting of the cold.

“Good afternoon, Mayor,” the teller says beneath the fluorescent lights. Her smile is bright. He tries to smile back. “What can I do for you?”

He takes a key from his pocket and sets it on the counter. “I’d like to pick up some papers from my safety deposit box, please.” He is always struck by how casual he can make his voice sound when he needs to.

“Sure thing.”

The employee who escorts him to the vault is roughly his age, and - he notices right away - wearing a wedding ring. They unlock the dual-key box together, and to his disgust, he feels a thrill when their sleeves brush. He grimly reminds himself to expect these kinds of physical reactions. Because every year, the  _ instant  _ he decides to give in, the scent of any man, every man, starts electrifying his skin against his will.

Inside the box is a stack of papers topped by his birth certificate and his will (beneficiaries: his parents). Beneath those, paperclipped together, are the NDAs. He pages through them casually, leaning over so the bank employee can’t see them, even though said employee is standing disinterested now at the door, polite and professional and leaving him alone with his secrets.

There is a blank form at the bottom of the stack. It’s the only blank form left. He will either need to get more, or never need another one again. He bites his lip, then transfers the form to a folder and the folder into the briefcase.

Before he leaves the vault, he fans through the NDAs still in the box. Every name has been etched into his nightmares: the kind that wake him up at three in the morning, sweaty, hard, and horrified.

2014 had been the wiry stockbroker who he’d had nothing in common with, but who he remembered making moan in the elevator. 2013 had been the writer, wholly unmemorable aside from his worn oatmeal-colored sweater, which smelled of cigar smoke and brandy and leather chairs and ink and discourse. 2012 had been the achingly pretty Englishman with the broom-closet of an apartment, who he’d later find out shared a sprawling house in the suburbs with his wife and two children. Pete’s guilt at the discovery was only matched by his relief that a man in such a situation would be unlikely to go public.

* * *

As he leaves the bank, he runs into a parish elder.

“Will we see you on Ash Wednesday?” She smiles. Everyone around him is smiling.

“Yes,” he says, tightening his white grip on the briefcase handle. He feels his skin flush beneath his collar.

“Morning or evening service?”

“Morning.”

“Lack of sleep is part of the penance,” she says, winking, and he wonders if his laugh is too hollow.

“Yeah,” he says. “Something like that.”

* * *

He’d thought he’d developed a new strength. After all, he was a veteran now. And entire months had passed without his once thinking seriously of breaking. He began to believe that the proximity to death had somehow shocked his system into celibacy. The relief was unspeakable, and he felt as if he could look to the future with some measure of optimism.

But a few days before his visit to the bank, he was at Target, shopping for banal things like toothpaste and dish soap and detergent, when he unthinkingly picked up a prepaid phone and dropped it in the cart. From the moment it landed with a thud, he knew that he would use it.

“That’s for my mother,” he told the cashier, who hadn’t asked.

He wasn’t able to sleep that night. He was thinking about everything except what he had done and what he was about to do.

The bag hung on the knob of his bedroom door, taunting him.

A few hours before he had to go to work, he went into the bathroom. He had barely crossed the threshold before he started vomiting. Afterward, he avoided his reflection as he washed his hands, then dutifully scrubbed the tiles and porcelain until they sparkled. For the rest of the day, he could smell phantom traces of citrus cleaner and bile.

Before he went back to bed, he opened the bag, took out the phone, and plugged it in to charge. He fell asleep quickly and only woke up when his alarm went off.

* * *

After he leaves work on Shrove Tuesday, he gets in the car and takes the ramp onto I-90 west. Driving into the cold red twilight irritates his eyes. It’s a relief when the shadows start lengthening and the sun dips beneath the treeline.

He stops for dinner at a drive-through outside of Chicago, parking in the lot and leaving the car running for heat. The canned air blasts from the vents as he opens the briefcase. He checks his phone, hoping there will be a text or a voicemail that will somehow change his mind. There isn’t. So he turns it off and sets it inside the briefcase.

He picks up the burner phone and turns it over, examining it. It feels strange and cheap in his hand; the parking lot lights reflect on its blank screen. He finds himself wondering what gas station garbage can he’ll drop it into later.

He turns it on and, as he eats his fries, balances it on the shallow curve of the dashboard. When he’s done with his food, he crumples up the wrappers and drops them into the greasy paper bag.

After that, his hands don’t feel like his anymore. He watches his fingers navigate the app with an ease that repels him. They finish by setting the bare-bones profile to live. It’s not too late to back out, technically. But he knows it is.

He drops the phone onto the passenger seat. As he drives into Chicago proper, he tries not to notice the whole-body spark he feels every time it makes an unfamiliar ding.

* * *

“Whiskey, please,” he says, and the bartender smiles and nods and glides down the counter to pour him one.

Drinking at a bar far from home is a strange kind of comfort, he thinks to himself. Especially when it’s filled with the laughter of people you’ll never know and never see again. But paradoxically, his feeling of isolation - sitting silently amidst the loud roar of cross-conversation and the fast-paced bass beat of music - somehow makes him feel less alone.  _ Anonymity suits me _ , he thinks, and then he immediately wonders why, if it does, he has chosen the line of work he has.

His thoughts are interrupted by a glass clinking down in front of him. The amber liquid sways. He nods to thank the bartender, not quite making eye contact.

“There’s more where that came from,” the bartender says. He understands.

“Just the one tonight,” he says. He wants to maintain the fiction that he’s a man who doesn’t take risks. “I’ve got a long drive home.”

“Wish our regulars were as responsible as you,” the bartender says, winking, and he drifts down the length of the bar to serve another customer.

After taking a fortifying sip, he slips a hand into his coat pocket for the phone. The nearest promising match belongs to a young man, smiling, whose eyes make him involuntarily remember the word cerulean.

Seventeen minutes ago, the young man had messaged him, referencing the vague request for discretion he’d left in his bare-bones profile:  _ I can be discreet for you, baby. _

The tips of Pete’s ears burn in a not unpleasant way. He smiles despite himself and scrolls down.

Eight minutes ago, an all lower-case follow-up:  _ what are you looking for. _

Pete abruptly finishes off the rest of the whiskey in one go. He knows exactly what he’s about to type. But even with the alcohol, it takes a painstakingly long time to get the words out. As he does, the blood hammering through his veins feels thick and guilty.

_ Someone to fuck me until I forget my own name _ , and he sends the message before he can renege on it.

He takes another drink of whiskey while he waits, even though there’s no whiskey left in the glass. He startles when he gets a notification.

_ I can take care of that for you. _

A fast inhale that no one notices, followed by a grateful ache of relief, chased by a shot of arousal - then swallowed by a grim foreboding over the question he has to ask next.

_ Would you be comfortable signing a non-disclosure agreement?  _ he types.

A four-minute eternity passes before he hears back.  _ Sure, I’ll sign an NDA. _

He types a message, then waits. He looks up at the clock on the bar wall, following every tick of the circling second hand until ninety seconds have passed. Then he taps send.  _ I can’t use my place. Where are you? _

The match sends an address.  _ 10pm? _

_ Sure. _

_ I’ll be here. _

He’s not sure why, but before he stands up to pay and to leave an extravagant tip, he sends a final message.  _ My name’s Peter. _

As he steps out of the cozy vestibule and into the cold street, he gets a reply. He pauses under a streetlight to read it.  _ I’m Chasten. _


	2. ii.

The elevator doors stutter open, depositing him in a hallway lit by shell-shaped sconces and smelling of scrubbed-away urine. A light in the distance flickers. The one closest to him buzzes. Beneath the bulb lies a scattered handful of dusty, desiccated insects.

He steps gingerly to apartment 509, as if stepping gingerly might keep his shoes from having to touch the carpet. Apartment 509 is around the corner, next to a nondescript seascape with a water-stained mauve mat. Before he knocks, he hears a woman wailing from the unit across the hall:  _ “I don’t know you. I don’t think I ever knew you.” _ He can’t tell if she’s real, or if a TV is turned too high.

He knocks and waits, fingers from both hands gripping the briefcase handle like it’s a shield. Someone starts fiddling with the chain on the other side of the door. He shifts his weight when the sound alone starts making him hard.

When the door finally opens, he’s looking at the floor, so the first thing he sees is a pair of brown shoes, then dark navy jeans, then a gingham button-up, then the tendons of a cream-colored neck, and then finally a round face with blue eyes capable of conveying the world.

“Hi,” the young man says.

“Hello,” Pete says.

He’s expecting awkwardness, but there’s none. Chasten just opens the door wide and gestures for him to come in. So he does, and Chasten closes it behind them, and suddenly there’s no more lying to himself that he’s not going through with this.

“Nice apartment,” Pete says.

“It’s not, but thanks.”

He knows that if he looks at Chasten he’ll see him looking him over, and he wants to forget that he’s being looked over, so he looks down at the briefcase instead. He feels like a pretentious privileged asshole, somehow overdressed and badly dressed simultaneously. He finds himself moving infinitesimally toward the overstuffed couch in the living area. “I have the paperwork I mentioned,” he says, indicating the briefcase. He smells the scent of a cinnamon candle.

Chasten understands his meaning. He strides into the living room, sits down, and absentmindedly fluffs a flat accent pillow. Pete isn’t sure if this is an invitation, but he pretends it is and sits down beside him. He lays the briefcase on his knees, pushes at the latches until both spring open, and withdraws the folder.

“Are you sure I’m not buying a house?” Chasten asks, taking it, and Pete can’t tell if he’s joking.

“It’s not  _ that  _ bad,” he says. He allows himself a single glance at Chasten’s face; he immediately feels his teeth grit with lust.

“So you’ve bought a house before?”

Pete digs a nail into the cuticle of his thumb, as deep as it will go, and gouges back, not caring that it bleeds. “Yeah,” he says.

“And you’re single?” Chasten says, settling back to read.

He laughs a one-syllable laugh. “Very much so.”

“So you’re making enough money that you can buy a house here on your own.”

“I’m really not.”

Chasten turns a page, then says, “Because you’re not really from Chicago?”

He smooths out the painful new hangnail: presses the bottom of his index finger against the ooze of blood. “I told you,” he says. “I need discretion.”

Chasten doesn’t look up, but his tone changes. “You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

For some reason the sincerity of the apology surprises him. “Me, too,” he says, eventually.

He waits. Sounds soak through the walls like hot water dripping through a coffee filter. He hears more shouting from across the hall. A heated argument in the street below. Sirens: after a millisecond of panic, he remembers they’re not his responsibility here.

A clock on the end table ticks, and even though Pete is staring directly at it, he knows he has lost track of time.

“How far did you drive?”

Pete watches the slow steady jerk of the clock’s hand. He wonders why he’s about to tell the truth. Maybe he’s just too tired to lie. “A couple of hours,” he says.

Chasten turns another page. “I see.”

Chasten keeps reading. The longer he sits there, the more obvious the warmth and skin and muscle beside him become. Pete begins to sweat. Without standing, he slips out of his black coat and spends too long folding it and smoothing it and laying it carefully across the broad arm of the couch.

He’s startled when Chasten, with a flourish, flips the papers back to the beginning. “Well,” he says, “I’ll put a call in to my lawyer and - ”

Pete’s stomach seizes. He interrupts with a faint, breathed  _ oh _ .

Chasten looks at him oddly. “I’m joking,” he says. “Look at this dump. You really think I can afford a lawyer? I’ll sign whatever you want.”

Pete crumples in on himself. “Please don’t joke,” he finds himself saying. “It’s been a really long time, and I need - ” and he feels his throat swelling up, as if he’s allergic to his own words.

He can sense that Chasten senses something. His voice goes gentle, and the change of tone makes Pete’s heart lurch. “You need what?”

“I need to forget.”

“Forget what?”

“That I’m a fucking coward who’s going to be alone forever,” and suddenly he’s told the stranger the truth he hasn’t even told himself.

“So am I,” Chasten finally says.

“Well.” He takes a breath, allows himself to look at Chasten’s face, at his eyes; and he drowns. “Let’s forget and be alone together, then.”

Chasten thinks the idea over. “Right,” he finally says. After a moment he breaks their gaze and looks down at the papers. “Do you have a pen?”

He does, because he’s nothing if not prepared; he’s nothing if not responsible. ( _ I’m nothing _ , he thinks to himself.) He opens his briefcase again and hands over a pen. Without warning, Chasten takes the briefcase, sets it on his own lap, and uses it to write on.

As soon as Chasten closes the final loop of his signature, Pete reaches out to take back the pen. He feels the undersides of his fingers brush across the top of knuckles. Then, mind suddenly blank, he drags his hand down the back of Chasten’s, feeling skin and the shape of a wrist beneath his palm, until his thumb touches the cloth of the gingham cuff and his fingertips press in against a pulse.

He realizes, too late, that he hasn’t taken back the pen.

Chasten glances down. “How long is a really long time?” he asks.

At the question, Pete stiffly loosens his grip. Starts stroking the smooth back of Chasten’s hand, casually. Finally he stills, but he can’t bring himself to lift his touch entirely. “I told you,” he says again. “I need discretion.”

Chasten shifts positions. Pete thinks they’re about to ignore the whole thing. But then Chasten takes his free hand and rests it on top of Pete’s, and he becomes intoxicated all over again by the humanity of the warmth.

“How long is a really long time?” Chasten asks again.

Pete closes his eyes, as if his eyelids might protect him from his own humiliation. When he finally answers, his voice is dry and desperate. “A year,” he says. “I do this once a year.”

He expects a laugh or a scold or at the very least a pulling away, but his hand stays encased in the warmth of the stranger. “Is it because of your job?” Chasten asks. His thumb starts drifting back and forth across the skin. Pete swallows and opens his eyes and looks down at the simple motion.

“...Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.” It breaks Pete, this tone of soft sympathy. “Your job must mean a lot to you.”

“It does,” he says. Then, quieter - “It means everything.” He struggles. “I can’t - ” He tries, but he can’t say any more than that, the words a hopelessly knotted mess stuck at the tip of his tongue.

Chasten tries saying something to lighten the mood. “Are you a priest? I’ve always dreamt about fucking a priest.”

The absurdity of the question, with its strange mix of self-deprecation and sincerity, makes him laugh against his will, and then they look at each other and they both laugh together. “Trust me,” Pete says. “I’m about as far away from a priest as you can get.”

“Well,” Chasten says, giving his hand a squeeze. “It was a good guess. Tomorrow’s Ash Wednesday.”

Pete freezes. Then, without thinking, without explaining, without understanding anything, he stands and pulls Chasten to his feet. “Come here,” he says, and he can feel beneath his fingers how Chasten is immediately dazed and disoriented, going from sitting next to a passive timid businessman staidly clutching a briefcase to an insistent entitled stranger, hungry to kiss, famished to push, to pull, to crash together. They each wrestle a bit for control, but Pete pushes with a surge of desperation and backs Chasten up against one of the thin walls, and as he does, his fingers start grazing against that creamy neck and the buttons at the top of his gingham shirt. Chasten’s breath is fast; Pete feels Chasten’s moan beneath his lips, feels pride that his presence is having this effect on a stranger - then Chasten grabs his wrist, hard, and Pete topples back to earth.

For a few minutes they just look at each other. Pete feels, intensely, the heave of the tense muscles beneath his collarbone.

Chasten is the first to speak. “Slower? I - ” He doesn’t finish his sentence.

“Yeah,” Pete breathes. “Yeah. I’m sorry.” He stops. He realizes what he must look like, what he must seem like. He despairs. “Are you okay?”

Chasten looks away. Again, the only sound between them is the ticking of the clock. “It’s my fault,” he finally says to the pulled-closed blinds. “Just some personal...history.” He takes a breath and smiles a small, sad, resigned smile. “So a little slower, maybe.” A hesitation. “That’s all.”

Pete stares at him. He waits for more. More isn’t provided. “Okay,” he says, cautiously. “I can do slower.”

He’s not sure if he can do slower. It seems a fool’s errand to try to control his desire, the fast frantic urgency of it. But tonight he’s willing to try being a fool. He leans in again, trying a slower kiss: a kiss that doesn’t convince him that the world is about to end. But it feels uncomfortable and ungainly and cold, and somehow he knows Chasten thinks so, too, and his heart aches that he can’t be better.

Chasten is the one to break away. He whispers in his ear. His voice is broken. “Just pretend you’re in love with me.”

The words are destabilizing. He realizes that he has never let himself imagine being in love before. The closest he has come is indulging a kind of unholy, all-consuming lust. He’s horrified. But he tries thinking about the idea, tentatively, as if from a great distance, and he kisses Chasten again, this time on the soft skin of his cheek, tremblingly trailing fingertips across the other side of Chasten’s face, letting them slip behind his neck. “Like this?” Pete whispers, suddenly insecure.

Chasten’s eyes close. The sudden vulnerability is mesmerizing. “Whatever it is you do when you’re in love,” he breathes back.

The words inflame his shame. He knows he should say something. He has to. “I never have been.”

Chasten’s eyes blink open. They search his face, questioningly. “Never have been?”

“In love. No.”

“Oh.”

“I won’t do that to you again,” Pete finds himself saying. He lifts his hand off Chasten’s neck; he’s embarrassed now that the gesture ever felt remotely natural. “I’ll go slow; I’ll go as slow as you’d like; I’m just…” He tries again. “I’m grateful you’re here, and that you’re - that you’re being kind, because not everyone has been, and - ”

He needs to be interrupted to stop talking, and Chasten interrupts him. “It’s okay,” he says. “My bedroom’s down the hall.”

“Are you sure? After - ?”

Pete can’t tell if the gaze he’s being given is sympathetic or just sad. “Here,” Chasten says, “this way,” and he steps away from the wall and gently turns Pete around, slipping a hand down his lower back to guide him. At the unexpected contact, he feels a hot jolt shoot down his sternum and the centerline of his stomach.

The bedroom is small and square with a dim and dingy overhead light, a closet whose doors have run off their tracks, and old gray wall-to-wall carpet, clearly stained for years but nevertheless striped with valiantly fresh vacuum tracks. The stack of books on the end table and the fresh, plush ivory comforter are the only two hints of luxury. Next to the books, two candles burn.

Seeing this, Pete’s feet feel like they’ve been magnetized to the carpet. He can tell his hesitancy has been sensed. Chasten’s hand slides down to the very base of Pete’s tailbone, fingers just an inch lower than they should be, tips resting right where the curve of his skin starts in earnest. A muffled sound he doesn’t recognize escapes his pressed-together lips; he pushes back on the pressure without realizing it, then stumbles away from the dizzy sensation and sits on the bed.

His breath is fast and shallow as he watches Chasten pretend not to notice. Chasten leans against his dresser to take off his shoes and socks and glasses. He glances over casually as he unbuttons the gingham, opening more creamy skin to the air. His voice is calm when he asks the question. “Have you ever watched a man undress to fuck you?”

Pete feels his self-control unspooling. “No; I…” He licks his lips before he realizes he has. “Normally it…” and then he gives up on finishing the thought.

“I’m jealous of my friends who are in relationships,” Chasten muses, fingers darting thoughtfully around each buttonhole. “They get to watch this every day. If they want.” He sheds his shirt and undershirt. The fabric rustles as he folds them up and sets them on the dresser top. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I’m a catch, but…” He sighs a little, takes a few steps forward until he’s right in front of Pete. “There’s something intimate about watching somebody get ready for bed. Isn’t there.” It isn’t a question.

Pete realizes his own fingers have gone up to his own neck, desperate to start undoing his shirt, when Chasten grabs his wrist - gently now.

“Stop,” Chasten says. “I’m not done yet.”

Pete shifts. He swallows his first confusing instinct of a response -  _ yes, sir _ .

“Do you want to help me?” Chasten asks. Then, softer: “You don’t need to. But you can.” He drops Pete’s wrist, leans over him, rests his hands on the tops of Pete’s thighs. There is no weight, only warmth, and he whispers against Pete’s earlobe. “I want you to remember me.”

Pete looks away, already playing back the memory of the caress-by-breath. Then he looks forward again. Nods. Carefully undoes Chasten’s belt, knuckles against the leather. Slides it off. His hands are shaking. He drags down the zipper. Sees the peek of fabric beneath. He tries to take a breath. He realizes he’s forgotten how, that he’s teetering on the edge of nausea. He tries again, tries to breathe, tries to open his lungs. Tries. When he finally does, the warm natural scent coming off Chasten’s chest drifts to the back of his throat. He leans forward into it until his forehead comes to rest on ribs. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to move again.

“You can…” he finally says. “I can’t…”

“It’s okay,” Chasten murmurs.

But then Pete takes a breath and sits back a little and tugs the jeans down with a resolve even he doesn’t recognize. He thinks he hears Chasten’s breath hitch, but when he looks up to check, he’s just smiling as he finishes taking off the jeans.

“So you’ve never been in love before?” Chasten asks.

“No,” he says, and he’s so mesmerized, he doesn’t know how he feels about that.

“Has anyone ever been in love with you?”

The question is strange. “Sorry?”

“There had to have been someone. At some point.”

_ Why? _ he wonders. “Why?” he says.

“Because,” Chasten says, and it’s all he says.

“Nobody ever told me, if there was.”

Chasten says “hm.” He shifts his weight to move closer. The energy in the room changes, and Pete feels an anticipatory crackle playing across his skin. Suddenly he needs very badly to be kissed. “So no man has ever told you about your eyes?” Chasten asks.

He reaches out, curious almost, head tilted just slightly. He brushes the side of his thumb across the outside corner of Pete’s eye, over fine wrinkles, over paper-thin skin. The sensation is so intense and small and unexpected that he hoarsely offers a bad joke in reply. “My optometrist.”

Hearing Chasten laugh makes his insides feel as if they’re drowning in fizzy champagne. “That doesn’t count.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Unless your optometrist wanted to fuck you, too.”

Pete tries to think of a comeback, but then he stops trying to think, because the back of Chasten’s hand drifts down his cheekbone, to his collarbone, to his shirt buttons. Pete raises a hand to help, but Chasten pushes it away with an easy authority, and Pete finds that he doesn’t mind. After a few buttons, he feels Chasten’s hand detouring, slipping beneath the fabric of his shirt shoulder, palpating the muscles there.

“And no man’s ever said anything about your shoulders? How strong they are?”

His next syllable sounds cloudy. “No,” he says, with great effort.

Chasten sits down beside him. Without realizing, Pete twists at the waist to beg to be unbuttoned all the way. Once he is, Chasten helps him off with his shirt. He leans in, talking casually to the skin on Pete’s neck as he drags a single finger down his throat.

“And no man’s ever said anything about what a deep handsome voice you have? It’s like fucking  _ chocolate _ .”

Pete can’t answer, but he isn’t meant to, because the question is immediately followed by a kiss pressed to the hollow of his throat. There’s just enough pressure that he almost feels as if he’s being choked. But again he doesn’t mind, and instead of resisting he just sinks backward into the bed.

Finally he manages to speak again. Just barely. “No.”

“Well.” Chasten smiles. “Now one has.”

Pete can’t talk anymore. Satisfied at work elegantly, efficiently done, Chasten hoists a leg over so there’s one on either side of Pete’s hips. He leans over and starts to kiss him. Pete’s eyes close on their own, as if his own body is protecting him from experiencing too many sensations at once. He shivers a little. Gives a tiny helpless moan as he realizes how much he’s loving this - then another longer one as he remembers what a dangerous, dangerous memory he’s making.

With great effort, he opens his eyes, traces shaking hands over Chasten’s forearms, and half-heartedly tries to push him off. But Chasten isn’t pushed off; he’s just pushed off balance, and he collapses accidentally on top of Pete. He feels it all in a great rush: the intoxicating weight of bare skin on bare skin - Chasten’s cheek next to his - apologetic breath huffed warm in his ear - his own hummed _fuck_ - an ungainly, unseemly thrust of his hips - a deep breath that rolls out from the pit of his stomach up to his throat, just so he can feel the luxury of more skin against his bare chest. Chasten pulls back, sits back, and slides his hands down Pete’s sides, under him, down to the small of his back, supporting the stiff arch of his spine.

“Help me or stop me,” Pete says, and even as he says the words he doesn’t know what he means.

“Which one?” There’s a tinge of worry in Chasten’s voice. “Because I don’t think I can stop you.”

“Then help me,” he says; he begs. “Help me, please.”

Chasten’s voice is still trembling, but it’s soothing. “I’ll help however you want.” He runs a hand through Pete’s hair. “It’s okay. You’ll be okay.”

Pete looks up at the dirty popcorn ceiling. He doesn’t know how to begin to explain all the reasons he’s wrong. Finally he just grits out a single word: “zipper.” Then: “And no. I won’t be okay.”

Chasten hesitates at that. But finally he leans over again, unzips him. Pete closes his eyes, then feels light kisses fanning out across his neck and chest and stomach. Chasten adjusts as he goes along, reading Pete’s every unconscious reaction: slowing here, dragging deeper against skin there, stopping altogether when he whimpers. He hovers a hand over Pete’s pants long enough for Pete to understand what he’s silently proposing, and when there’s no objection, he undoes the buttons one-handed, and Pete somehow wriggles out of them.

“Maybe I can make you okay,” Chasten breathes, picking up the soft dropped stitch of their conversation. The timbre of his voice slips lower. “Do you want me to try?”

Pete can’t breathe. Chasten seems to understand, because he leans back, just watching him. Giving him a moment. Giving them both a moment.

“Can I ask you something?” he finally says.

Pete nods.

“When you’re at work…” But he trails off, uncertain.

After a while has passed, Pete gives him permission to keep going. “Yes?”

“Is your job to take care of people?”

For a brief moment he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to remember. He’s afraid he’ll break himself if he remembers. He feels as if he is being unfaithful to something. “Yes.”

“So if you only - do  this  once a year…” Chasten hesitates. “When’s the last time someone took care of you?”

He tries to think back through the haze of memories, of sitting alone at cafe tables abroad, of dark silent drives, of staying up late to finish projects because nobody is allowed to demand that he be sensible. “Never,” he says.

“Because there hasn’t been anybody, right?” Chasten says. “But… I’m somebody.” When Pete doesn’t answer, he adds a hurried qualification: “For tonight.”

“Of course you’re somebody,” Pete says, “but it’s not fair to expect - ”

He hasn’t realized that his fingers have gone tight at his side until Chasten begins to kiss them. Lips brush around his nails, his knuckles, until Pete slowly relents and relaxes. Every centimeter of skin is electric in a different way - just beneath the fingers feels bright and yellow; the center of the palm feels like a blue heat; the inside of the wrists just make him go blank and whimper, and then whimper again once he feels Chasten smiling against the skin. He realizes that none of the whimpers sound content: all of them sound desperate.

“It’s okay to enjoy,” Chasten whispers, answering him. “What’s the point otherwise?”

The question appeals to the side of him that clings to the cold comfort of data and calculations and risk/benefit ratios. And Chasten’s right, he realizes: for all the costs this night will have, he might as well enjoy the benefits. So he slowly, soberly lets himself sink into the touches. Kisses trail up the thin-skinned insides of his elbow, then drift over to graze his hip. But then he realizes, suddenly, that Chasten has a destination in mind, and as quickly as he resolved to relax, he tenses up all over again.

Chasten sees it, feels it. “Peter,” he says. “Breathe.”

Pete struggles. “I don’t…” He doesn’t know what to say.

There is a long silence as comforting fingers trace the aching thrill in his lower stomach. But he can’t breathe. He prays to curse himself for not breathing. He prays to curse himself for not being who he needs to be.

Finally Chasten lifts his fingers up and reaches them out. “Hold my hand if you want me to keep going,” he says. His voice is soft. “I’ll stop the minute you let go, I promise. Just keep breathing. That’s all.”

Pete hesitates, uncertain. He doesn’t remember the last time someone had offered their hand to him. Maybe no one ever had. But in the end he takes it, and he melts again in its warmth.

Chasten starts to kiss the top of his thighs, then the insides. As he curves around, Pete feels the muscles of his core curling in, then half-hears a low moan that he’s vaguely aware is his. He’s alarmed by how frantically tight his grasp on Chasten’s hand has become.

“Stop; just - stop, please,” he whispers as every single cell of his soul disagrees. He keeps holding Chasten’s hand. In fact, he brings his other hand to hold it, too. “Tonight can’t end like this.” His whole body shivers at the idea. “I have - ” He stops talking to focus on keeping his hips from thrusting against the warm wet pressure. Too late he realizes he already has, once, twice, three times. “I have such a long drive to get home; I -  _ fuck _ \- ”

His eyes are watering, and the wetness on his cheeks feels like the liquid expression of everything he’s ever fought to keep inside.

Chasten pulls back. He speaks calmly.

“You’re allowed to come more than once, Peter,” he says, still holding his hand, and he leans in again and goes back to work.

“Jesus  _ Christ _ ,” he rasps, and as he says the words he gives up on every thought he’s ever had. The last thing he sees before he can’t see anymore are two blue eyes, watching, examining his every writhe before his body breaks.

They lay together for a while afterward. Every muscle and tendon in his body has gone weak, and yet, he realizes, he’s somehow still grasping Chasten’s hand with all the strength he ever had.

“Who…” he finally says, but he needs a few minutes, and Chasten gives them to him. He tries again. “Who  _ are  _ you?”

Chasten smiles, but only to himself. He traces fingertips up Pete’s still-vibrating body and, without preamble, gives him a long deep kiss. Pete realizes the kiss is the only answer to the question that he’s prepared to give.

“Do you want a beer?” Chasten asks. His voice is shaking too, but his tone is nonchalant. “I’ve got two left in the fridge. New Glarus.”

Pete tries to remember a world outside, before this bedroom. He realizes he’s still lying diagonally, head nowhere near a pillow. He watches Chasten’s eyes. He’s patiently, sympathetically waiting for him to catch up. “Okay,” he says, eventually.

“Then we can…” Chasten shrugs. “Finish up how you want. Just let me know.” He hesitates. “Sorry I took over a bit. I do that sometimes.”

“I didn’t mind,” Pete says without thinking.

“Apparently not.” Chasten says, and tries to sit up to go, but Pete realizes he can’t let go of his sweaty hand, not yet. Chasten looks back at him. He looks amused and admiring at once.

Pete speaks impulsively. “You said you wanted me to remember you,” he says.

Chasten glances down then, a touch embarrassed. “Yeah.”

“Well,” Pete says. “I’m going to remember you.”

They keep looking at each other. Being under Chasten’s gaze feels like being tied to a tight string, taut and humming.

And then Chasten glances down a second time, and the illusion of intimacy shatters. He squeezes Pete’s hand and drops it, then stands and steps up to the dresser and grabs his glasses before leaving the room.

After he leaves, Pete sits up and waits in the cinnamon-scented candlelight. Out the window, he hears two drunk men half-screaming, half-singing on the sidewalk. The sky outside the cracked curtain looks red and murky, and a handful of snowflakes have been sprinkled on the glass.


	3. iii.

_ I wonder whether I am allowed to eat any of the Tootsie Rolls. They haven’t said, so I’d better not. The car starts forward; I fall out the back window onto the dirt road, thunk, in the darkness, alone. I am not the kind of little boy likely to be missed in a car with a dozen screaming children. I don’t scream. _ __

_ I am lying on my back on the dirt road, dazed, beginning to wonder what I am supposed to do, beginning to wonder what they will do to me, if they find me, for doing such a bad thing. _

_ I see the car stop up the road. Another ghost has seen me fall out the back window and has passed the word up to Mrs. Connell. Mrs. Connell backs the car up slowly. I am sitting up now, dirt on my sheet, dirt on my hands and in my hair. I am not supposed to be so dirty. _

“There are books on the bedside table, if you want something to read,” Chasten calls from the kitchen. Pete shuts  _ The Best Little Boy In the World _ and carefully slips it back into the stack where he found it.

“Thanks,” he says.

There’s silence. Pete watches the candles, idly stretching out a hand above their heat.

“Peter?”

His heart skips a beat. “Yes?”

“You had a drink tonight, didn’t you?”

He wonders how it’s obvious. He contemplates lying. He discovers that he can’t. “Yes.”

“So a rain check on the beer for you.” An awkward quiet. “I mean,  _ no  _ beer for you. Is what I mean.”

The words tug something in him. “You can still have one,” he says, examining his hangnail. He pulls at it and feels pain. “You deserve one after…” He trails off, wondering how to sum it up. “Me.”

“I have a better idea. Give me a minute.”

He catches himself smiling at the distant sounds of domesticity. Cabinet doors thud closed. Silverware and glass bowls jingle and clink. When Chasten returns, he is carrying two bowls of ice cream.

“What?” Chasten says to Pete’s raised eyebrow. He’s coy, and he crawls back into bed and hands over a cold bowl. “Not used to men in underwear bringing you dessert?”

Pete flinches, and can tell Chasten is horrified as soon as he says the words.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “That was inappropriate. I usually don’t hook up with closeted guys; I forgot...” And he trails off.

Pete nods. They’re both quiet, and they eat together in that quiet. He keeps turning Chasten’s words over in his mind. It takes half a dish of dessert, but finally his thought slips out of him. “Then why’d you pick me?”

Chasten takes a spoonful of ice cream. He swallows before he answers. “I don’t know,” he admits, and Pete doesn’t think he’s lying. “Lots of little reasons. I had a terrible day. I’m a glutton for punishment. You were just around the corner. You were intriguing.” He hesitates. “Are intriguing.” He shrugs.

_ You are intriguing. _ Pete sets his spoon down in the dish. “You have to understand,” he says, “this isn’t...a thing I do.”

“Eating?” Chasten asks dryly.

“Hookups. Sex.” He leaves space after the word for a meaningful pause. “Dating.”

“I can tell,” Chasten says, and Pete isn’t sure if he should be offended or not. Chasten takes another spoonful. He speaks with nonchalance. “But I don’t blame you. I’m over the whole dating thing myself.”

“Yeah?”

“Long story.” He smiles, but it seems forced. “Long  _ stories _ .”

It’s strange to see such a world-weary soul in a young man’s body. He’s like a sapling bent under the weight of too much snow. “How old are you?” Pete asks.

“Twenty-five.”

He tries to keep the note of primness out of his voice, but fails. “Seems a little young to have given up on love.”

Chasten’s shoulders stiffen. “How old are you?” he asks.

Suddenly he regrets saying anything. “Thirty-three.”

Chasten gazes at him, pointedly, and his beautiful eyes imply the unspoken:  _ Seems a little old to never have tried it _ .

Pete looks down into his bowl. He keeps eating. Keeps trying not to think.

“Well,” Chasten says. “At least we both know what we want. It makes this kind of thing easier.”

“It does,” Pete agrees. He glances at his fresh soft face, hoping to be distracted from saying anything more. But that glance has the opposite effect: it makes him want to know more. “Knowing what I want doesn’t keep me from wanting to know more about you.”

Chasten scrapes the bowl clean with his spoon. Sets it on his side table. Looks back at Pete, and smiles a quick smile that never reaches his eyes.

Pete continues, stumbling, uncertain. “You sussed out my life story in fifteen minutes. That I’ve bought a house. That I lied about where I’m from. That I’m single. That I love my job. That I can’t date for as long as I  _ have  _ my job. That I only do this once a year. That I’ve never been in love. Fuck, that I had a drink before I got here.”

“I’d need a drink, too, if I only did this once a year,” Chasten says lightly.

Pete ignores him. “You figured all that out  _ and  _ just gave me the best blowjob of my life, and I still don’t know anything about you.”

Chasten shrugs. “I sound like a fucking angel,” he says.

“A fallen one, maybe.”

Chasten smiles, thinking about that for a minute. Then he turns to his side and leans on his elbow and looks up. “Who do  _ you  _ think I am?” he asks.

“Well,” Pete says. He takes a thoughtful bite of ice cream. “You’re funny.”

The smile finally reaches Chasten’s eyes. “Why do you say that?”

“The optometrist joke.”

Chasten chokes down a laugh, and the giggled hiccup makes Pete’s face flush. “That wasn’t my joke; that was a reaction to your joke.”

Pete smiles, too, and ignores him. “You’re smart,” he says. “In fact, I think…” He squints a little, as if he’s appraising him, but really he just wants an excuse to keep his eyes on his face. “I think you’re in law school, or a teacher, or something like that.”

Pete wonders if he’s imagining the new shine in his expression. “And why do you say that?”

He nods to the side. “Books on the bedside table. That you’re actually reading.”

“Good. What else?”

Pete breaks the gaze, a little reluctantly. He looks down at the coverlet before saying anything more. “You’re kind. Gentle.” He hesitates. “Perceptive.”

“And why do you say that?” he hears.

He takes a moment, carefully weighing whether to be honest. He uses his finger to draw a tiny pattern on the comforter. “Because,” he says, “you know I can’t say what I want out loud.”

He hears the sheets rustle, feels the center of the mattress shift as weight leans toward him. “What else?”

The next thing he wants to say is a gamble - but he takes a breath and makes the bet. “You’re broken,” he says, and he looks up just in time to see Chasten’s smile flicker off his face.

“Why…?” Chasten asks, but it doesn’t really seem like a question.

Pete knows he should start over, back up, course-correct, but he can’t. He wants to convey - somehow - that he’s not afraid of broken people. “I don’t know why,” he says. “But I see it. Because I am, too.”

They’re motionless for a moment. But then, without breaking eye contact, Pete sets his empty dish on the end table and leans over to kiss Chasten. There’s a whole expanse of exposed skin along his spine to be explored, to be mapped. His heart goes raw when he hears a quivering little whimper beneath him.

“What happened?” he murmurs, half to Chasten, half to the shadows. “What broke you?”

“I - ” Chasten begins to say, breathless, and there are a few moments when Pete feels like they might be trembling on the edge of something true - but then Chasten just drapes his arms around Pete’s neck, pulls him closer, and strains up. Pete takes off Chasten’s glasses and sets them on the side table and kisses him all the deeper.

“You don’t need to tell me,” he finally says. “But if it helps, I’ll listen.”

Their eyes are closed. They keep them closed. They keep kissing. Then Chasten takes a breath, and he whispers against Pete’s lips. “The first time was a house party gone wrong,” and that’s all he says.

Pete freezes. Then, after a suspended moment, he finds himself running a hand through Chasten’s hair, then kissing his cheek, brushing fingers across his face, letting them slip between the nape of Chasten’s neck and the pillow.  _ Just pretend you’re in love with me, _ he remembers, but this time feels different; this time he can almost imagine it, and Chasten is responding in a new way now, too, pushing the vertebrae of his neck back into Pete’s fingers, moaning just slightly.

“Who takes care of you?” Pete whispers.

When Chasten answers, it’s in a small, shaky voice. “I do.”

Pete hesitates, but then he asks, because he has a sudden longing to know if he’s the only one. “Do you ever get tired of that?”

Chasten has gone limp, shutting his eyes to him.

“Can I help take care of you?” Pete asks, trying to keep him from sinking away. “Let me help. Let me help, Chasten,” and it’s the first time he’s said his name.

“I don’t know,” Chasten says weakly, “I’m just…” and then there’s no more.

Pete pulls back just barely. He rubs his thumb back and forth - lightly - against Chasten’s jawline as he speaks. It doesn’t feel erotic, or even romantic; it just feels human. He finds himself asking another question. “Do you know what I hate most about being alone?”

“What,” Chasten breathes.

“The worst part isn’t the loneliness. You can distract yourself from that. Because there’s always a distraction, right?”

“Yes.”

“The worst part is having so much love to give, but not having anyone you trust enough to give it to. So you just - you just carry it; and…”

He can’t finish; his instincts override his explanation; his body overrules his brain. He kisses him again, and deeper, and again, deeper, trying to say what he feels by touch, even though touch is a language he knows he’ll never speak. But he connects anyway, because when he comes up for air, he hears a desperate whisper.

“Help me.”

He nods just barely at that. Feels his breath going faster. He keeps his eyes closed; he reaches out, patting the sheets in search of a hand. Chasten understands, and offers it, and Pete explores the fingers with his as he keeps kissing. He sets Chasten’s hand on the curve of his own bare hip, a silent invitation. “I’ll go slow for you,” he says. “I promise. I’ll tell you everything right before I do it.”

Chasten makes a small vulnerable sound at that, his hand on Pete’s hip feeling suddenly weaker, like it might slide off altogether.

“Is that okay,” Pete whispers. It’s meant to be a question, but Pete’s so breathless, it doesn’t sound like one. He feels a nod below. “Thank you.” Then, incongruously, but it’s hurting him to keep the throbbing ache of the thought buttoned up: “ _ God _ , you’re hot.”

Chasten answers by pressing fingers into Pete’s lower back.

“I’ll start up here,” he says to his forehead. He brushes his lips over it lightly, traces around the hairline. He feels Chasten shiver underneath him; for the first time, he has a sympathy shiver of his own. He takes a moment to breathe before continuing. “Left cheekbone.” He kisses it. “Right.” He kisses it. “Eyebrows.” Quietly: “Keep your eyes closed.”

Chasten nods. With every new word he presses decadently back into the pillows, pulling Pete’s hip and back down with him, like he’s using him to stay afloat.

“Right above your lip?” He hesitates. “I know it’s stupid, but…” and his voice goes too thick to explain why. After the kiss he keeps going. “Your ear...” He starts to move toward it, then hurriedly clarifies. “Your right. My left.”

His eyes are still shut, but their faces are so close now that he can feel Chasten’s smile. He kisses the ear, breathes on it, wonderingly runs fingertips along the curved edge of the other one. Chasten’s reaction is to flatten his hand on Pete’s lower back, fingers spreading, splaying out. Pete slows to a stop. He whispers there.

“Thank you.”

Chasten rouses himself. His voice is barely recognizable. “For what?”

Pete doesn’t know. The gratitude came from an instinct he doesn’t understand or control. “Because,” he says. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes, and - I don’t think you’re one of them.”

He feels Chasten about to say something - to protest maybe - but he rests a single finger on his lips to quiet him. And once it’s clear he’s fallen silent, he starts tracing the shape of those lips, as if he’s trying to commit their shape to memory. Suddenly it hits him - he  _ is _ , and that’s what he’s thanking him for: letting him memorize what his face feels like, because he knows he might never touch another one again.

“This has to be my last time,” he whispers, and he’s not sure if he’s talking to Chasten or just himself. “It  _ has  _ to be, and I just… I just want to remember what it feels like to...” He swallows the break in his voice. “You can open your eyes now, if you want.”

It takes a moment, but Pete feels Chasten’s head tilting toward his, cheek applying pressure, hand lifting away from his lower back. “You should open yours first,” Chasten says, and his new tinge of bitterness catches Pete off guard.

“They are open.”

“Are they?”

“I - ” Pete says, but then Chasten surprises him and rolls over on top of him.

“Can I make a bet?” Chasten asks.

He’s not sure what to say to that. He settles on “If you want.”

“I bet,” Chasten begins, but then he stops, hesitant. The expression in his eyes flickers between soft and steely and sympathetic and then back to steely again, and the contrast stirs something between Pete’s hips. Finally Chasten leans into his ear. When he whispers, his breath is hot. “I bet you know the exact date you were fucked last.”

Pete tenses. Chasten keeps whispering, starting to draw little circles on his chest.

“And I bet he spent ten minutes on you, if you were lucky.”

“It wasn't like that,” he says, and he realizes too late that he can’t even convince himself he's telling the truth.

“What do you dream about, I wonder, when you’re remembering? When you’re laying in bed trying so hard not to touch yourself? What did he do to you?” He pauses. Stretches the silence out deliberately. “And what do you wish you could have done to  _ him?” _

A hundred wishes wash over him at once, and every one makes his face flush. Chasten sits back a bit, takes Pete’s hand, uncurls it, and rests it on his own chest, so that Pete can feel his heartbeat. The tone of his voice turns wistfully condescending.

“Do you ever wish you could see him again? Tell him to stay still while you actually take your time?”

Pete starts to pale.

“Tell him to stay still while you start at his throat?”

Chasten pulls his hand up to his throat, pressing Pete’s fingers against his voice.

“Tell him to say something just so you can feel the vibrations going down your fingers?”

Pete tries to wriggle free, halfheartedly, but Chasten holds his hand firm, and stills him by dragging it down his own chest. Even from there Pete can feel the resonance of every word spoken.

“Tell him to stay still while you trace around and wait to see where he reacts?”

The pressure on the hand lets up just barely. Pete tentatively tries moving it on his own. The pressure immediately returns.

“Tell him to stay still while you count every bump on his ribs, and then watch him shiver at how fucking attentive you are?”

Pete feels the smooth skin of Chasten’s side gliding beneath his guided palm.

“Dare him not to make a sound as you’re kissing down his stomach? Think about what you’ll do to punish him if he so much as  _ whimpers  _ at you? Is that it? Is that what you think about?”

Pete bites his own tongue, hard, willing himself to concentrate on that pain over any of the other kinds sniping in his chest.

“I bet if you had more than ten minutes to get to know him, you could dole out a punishment that would make that asshole scream.”

His eyes are closed already, but he closes them even tighter now, because Chasten is right; he  _ knows  _ he could; he  _ knows  _ he could be something to someone someday; he  _ knows  _ he could be a secret-keeper and not just a secret, if only - and then the thought runs into a dead-end.

“And this next part is what you dream about the most, isn’t it? This is the part that wakes you up. This is the part you fucking hate yourself for.”

Pete feels his toes begin to curl as Chasten pulls his hand lower, and lower, down to the hem of his boxers, and accepts Pete’s eager help getting them off. After they’ve been tossed aside, Pete feels his hand being taken again, and his heart begins to race, and he starts to anticipate, heart in his throat, the slide down the skin, further, further - and then, at the very last moment, Chasten drops his hand entirely. He hears himself give a whine of surprise.

Chasten leans and whispers again. “The dreams aren’t going to stop,” he says. Pete can’t unravel the full meaning of his tone, and his dropped hand is stinging. “Maybe you’ll last longer than a year this time. Maybe you’ll last two, or three, or four. But there  _ will  _ be a next time. Because you’re a human being. And since you’re a human being, at some point you’re going to break. And you know what? It’s always better to break yourself than have someone break you first. Because at least if you break yourself, you can control how you fall apart.”

Everything Chasten says knocks him off-balance - turns him on and turns him off - disorients him completely. Because he’s right, and it’s true.

_ He’s right and it’s true. _

It’s all fucking true.

The first and only thing Pete thinks to say in return is “please forgive me.” And so he does: “Please forgive me.” He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know what he’s asking forgiveness for, and he doesn’t know who he’s asking it of, but he does know he needs to keep asking until some great stain is scrubbed away.

Chasten doesn’t know how to react to that. His sudden stammers make Pete miserable. “No; there’s nothing to -  _ I’m _ sorry; I didn’t mean - ” and they’re quiet in the awkwardness for a moment. “It’s just not fair,” Chasten says, under his breath. “None of this is fair. I know you think there’s no way out, and maybe there isn’t, but it’s just not  _ right  _ for you or for anybody else to have to deprive yourself and  torture  yourself just for…” He falls short and tries again. “The only reason I said anything is because you seem like a sweet guy who shouldn’t have to deal with this.” He stops, helpless. “That’s all.”

Pete opens his eyes. He looks at Chasten. He says nothing.

“I’m sorry,” Chasten says again. “I said too much. I always say too much. Just - tell me what you want. And then you can go home and be done with me.” He exhales, shaky. “I’m sorry.”

Chasten leans down again, kisses him gently, exquisitely. Pete hesitates before returning the kiss, his thoughts fluttering like the wings of a trapped bird. Before he can decide if he wants to answer, Chasten stops the kiss.

“I ruined this, didn’t I?” Chasten asks.

Pete’s voice is quiet. “You didn’t ruin anything. You’re right.”

“I’m not right; I’m an asshole.”

“But you’re right,” Pete repeats. Then, slowly - “I want you to break me.”

Chasten hesitates. “I didn’t mean to - ”

Pete interrupts with a single-minded intensity he didn’t know he was capable of. “Show me,” he says, “what I’ll be missing.”

Chasten waits for a minute to see if Pete backs down or breaks down. But Pete knows he won’t, and he doesn’t. So Chasten kisses him. Pete immediately feels a new edge, teeth lightly biting, scraping against his lip. Chasten’s hips start moving just barely, and in time with the motion of the kisses. Both of his hands find their way to Pete’s face, and the resulting kiss churns up some of the most gut-wrenching need he’s ever felt. He knows, somehow, that Chasten has felt it, too, and he feels a little afraid.

Chasten pulls away, but only for a moment. His voice has gone unsteady. He’s been unmoored. “I don’t think we should say anything more,” he whispers. “Do you?”

Pete is shaking his head before he finishes the question.  _ No; we shouldn't say anything more _ .

Chasten kisses him; he kisses him back. He can feel the narrowing of Chasten’s concentration, and how his fingers spread out and graze down from just beneath Pete’s ears to the base of his neck. They falter suddenly there, and it takes a moment for Pete to understand, but then he realizes: that’s where his heartbeat is. Chasten breaks away from his lips, and he kisses the pulse, and keeps going.

He starts kissing down his chest, trailing fingertips along Pete’s sides as he does. At first Pete does everything he can to resist the need to squirm. He feels all of his muscles jerking out of order, stiffening up, going slack. Then he remembers:  _ It’s okay to enjoy… What’s the point otherwise...?  _ And he starts trying to give in, feeling the spasms of electricity wavering up either side of his spine to the base of his skull, the nape of his neck. As he does, he feels Chasten’s encouraging hum of praise, and he feels he has maybe done one thing right, and his embarrassment starts to melt away a little.

But then Chasten’s hands drift down to his knees, where he starts to apply a gentle, questioning pressure, and for just a moment, Pete resists. He turns his face and presses it against the pillow, his body stealing quick, shallow breaths. He remembers that the scent of the pillowcase will never be familiar; this isn’t home and it never will be; and at the thought, he realizes that the strength of his heartbeat is giving him a headache.

Chasten breaks their agreement. “It’s okay,” he whispers.

The lie of it hangs in the air. Pete doesn’t answer.

“Can I - ?”

Pete interrupts, quickly. “Yes. Please.”

He realizes he’s closed his eyes again. He keeps them closed. He feels their joint weight moving to the side a little as Chasten leans over to the nightstand and opens a drawer. Pete swallows. He’s lost control of his hips, instinctively hunting for any hint of friction, finding none. His stomach feels dizzy, knowing how he’s on display. He stops breathing; instead, he gets air from his short little huffs, separated by silence as he waits.

He feels a hand, then, where he’s least expecting it: on his lower stomach between the hips, right over where the heat of his lust is pooled. The unexpected contact makes the back of his neck - sweaty now - lift up from the pillow and fall back in surprise. Chasten sees the reaction but presses down his fingers anyway. He’s talking through his touch, and his message couldn’t be clearer:  _ stay still. _ The idea of being told what to do makes his hips buck up involuntarily. When they collapse back onto the sheets, he feels a flat palm beneath him, followed by the teasing curl of slicked-up fingers. He realizes he’s trapped: whether he moves up or down, he’ll face warmth and resistance in either direction. He manages to have a weak thought of gratitude that Chasten is so patient with his squirming. When his hips finally still, wary and reluctant, Chasten begins to lightly drift the thumb on his stomach back and forth, and he short-circuits all over again.

The hand beneath him coyly slides away, dragging a curious index finger with it. Pete clutches the pillow beside him. Then the other hand taps and lifts off his stomach, and the feel of the cool air and nothingness make him choke something back.

A few moments later, Chasten’s fingers return, pressing against him, then pressing inside him. With every passing second he’s convinced he’s about to go even further out of his mind, and with every passing second he does. His hips are lost; he can still feel the ghost of the tap on his lower belly, the unspoken  _ stay still _ . He’s overcome by a wave of warmth and sweat.

He gets no warning when the fingers hit deep enough. He nearly doubles in on himself with the white electricity of it, “stay still” be damned. Two sounds are intertwined - an admiring hiss of breath, which must be Chasten’s, and a moan that starts off low and suddenly slides higher, which must be him. He feels Chasten leaning over him and then unprying his fingers one-by-one from the pillow he hasn’t let go of. Chasten takes those fingers, and he wonders cloudily where they’re being taken to, until it hits him with a jolt that they’re holding Chasten’s cock.

He’s incapable of everything; he’s forced to work off sheer distracted instinct. He resorts to curious, disjointed touches and strokes; finally he just gently wraps his fingers around, and he feels Chasten’s answering shudder all the way to the base of his spine. His hand is shaking; he has a stutter of a thought, wondering if Chasten can feel it, and if he can, if he likes it. He manages to draw his thumb across the tip with a smear before Chasten gently makes him let go and raises the back of Pete’s hand to his lips and kisses it. It’s still shaking, even as it’s gently laid back down on the pillowcase it was lifted from.

Pete almost wants it all to stop here now so he can go home to relive the memory alone - but then he remembers he’s still here, and he feels fingers back on him and in him, slowly scissoring now. He lets out a strangled half-cry. He hopes his meaning is clear: he’s desperately close to not being able to absorb any more sensations. He’s terrified of feeling anything else.

“I need you,” he says, but it comes out as a moan.

“I know,” Chasten says. Then, softer: “I know.”

When Chasten presses himself inside, Pete can’t react at all. But slowly a wave of desire swells over him, drowns him. He needs motion, movement. Chasten does, too. It takes several breaths for them to understand the other, but they stumble together, and when they hit a rhythm, Pete lets out a clipped “God, I - ”, and never finishes the phrase.

Their moans tangle, a disjointed counterpoint. Pete remembers the paper-thin walls, feels as if he might die of shame, and then forgets it all in the next breath. He hears Chasten talking to him. It takes a moment to make sense of the words. “Slow?” He’s out of breath, too. “Fast?”

He can’t think. He’s withdrawn into himself. He tries to step outside of himself to be able to answer. He can’t. He says the only thing he can think now, that he keeps thinking over and over and over again: “I don’t know.”

“Soon?”

He nods, quickly. Chasten tugs at him, and the sensations of push and pull become too much, and he comes. Chasten follows not much later.

His pulse hammers behind his swimming vision. Their breaths slow, gradually and together. Pete gives a last high-pitched hum as Chasten pulls out and then slips from the bed altogether. He disappears silently into the hall, and Pete has a vague impression of a light in the distance being turned on and off. He hears a faucet. For some reason, the sound of running water hitting a sink basin strikes him as offensively mundane.

He drifts in a haze. Feels Chasten come back to bed with a warm wet cloth. Chasten starts to clean him, and Pete finds himself unspeakably moved by the gentleness of the gesture, when suddenly his common sense snaps back to life.

“No,” he says, with sudden urgency. “No.”

Chasten freezes. “I’m sorry, I - ”

Pete interrupts. “Don’t be kind."

They look at each other. Chasten is the first to look away. He takes a deep breath and nods once, and hands the cloth over.

They say nothing for a while.

“Peter?” Chasten says eventually. His eyes are fixed on the mirror above his dresser.

Pete hesitates. He knows he knows what’s coming, and he wishes there was something he could do to stop it. “Yes?”

“You said earlier…” Chasten trails off. “Coming out will make you lose your job.”

Pete looks away, too. He watches the candlelight flicker. “Yes,” he says.

“And you really, really love that job?”

“I do,” he says.

“You’re never coming out, are you?” Chasten asks.

He’s only half-hearing Chasten now. He finds himself mesmerized by the two fragrant little dancing flames instead.

“Because you would have already, I think, if you were going to,” Chasten says. “Right?”

He doesn’t give an answer, because he doesn’t know what the answer is. He’s increasingly convinced that he doesn’t know anything. He’s increasingly convinced that this stranger knows him better than he knows himself. He’s increasingly convinced that his life has been nothing more than a long string of mistakes, every one a knot that can never be untied.

“You should go home,” Chasten says. He’s quiet, and he’s right.

Pete says nothing for a while. He looks again at the candles, now noticing nothing about them. When he does speak, it’s to ask a question he already knows the answer to.

“Didn’t you…” He swallows. “Enjoy…?”

Chasten’s tone suddenly turns heartbreakingly earnest. “Yes. Yes, I did enjoy. And you did, too.” He hesitates, helpless. “That’s the problem.”

There’s nothing left to say. Pete nods. He sits up. Suddenly he feels the weight of every one of his thirty-three years. His muscles ache from the nerves and the drive and the motions of sex. He stops thinking about it, though. Goes through the familiar ritual of tamping down emotion, of feeling numb and nothing. When Chasten takes his hand for the final time, he can’t feel a thing.

“I’m sorry,” Chasten says. “But I can’t have my heart broken again. You don’t understand; I just can’t.”

“I understand,” Pete says, and he does, in a way, and his voice is dull.

Chasten lets out a breath. It sounds as if he is letting something more than air go. Finally he leans over and just barely kisses Pete’s cheek. “Will you get home okay? It’s late.”

“I’ll be fine,” Pete says by rote, because it’s what he always says to everyone. But when he sees Chasten’s skeptical eyes looking into him, he answers again more honestly. “I don’t know.”

Chasten stands up. He wearily starts dressing. Pete watches, still hungry for him, before he wonders if he shouldn’t be. But Chasten doesn’t seem to mind his eyes. “You should sleep before you go,” he says. “Just stay in here; I’ll take the couch.”

“No, I can’t - ”

Chasten turns around and interrupts. He’s buttoning up his shirt in a way that projects authority, and that authority silences him. “I’m not kicking you out,” he says. “Doze for a while, at least.” He smiles a ghost of a smile. “I’m guessing you’re tired out.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer; the question is settled; and without ceremony he leans over and blows out the candles. Pete watches, helplessness mounting, wanting to say something, needing to say something, but having absolutely nothing to say.

At the doorway, Chasten pauses and turns around. Pete suddenly feels his heart stop, because he’s sure he’s about to say something important, something that will make all the things that don’t make sense tonight, make sense.

“When you take a shower, the hot water takes a while to kick in,” Chasten says. “And the faucet’s loose on the sink. You might have to jiggle it a little if it doesn’t behave.”

Pete’s voice is faint. “Okay.”

Chasten picks up his glasses and phone from the end table. “What time do you need to be home by?”

Pete calculates. The morning service is at seven, and he wants to stop at home first. He doesn’t want to go to church unshaven and in clothes that have just been strewn across a stranger’s bedroom floor. “I’ll probably leave here around four-thirty,” he says.

Chasten seems a little surprised at that, but he hides it well. “Do you want me to wake you up?”

“I’ve got my phone,” Pete says.

“Right.” He makes a motion as if he’s about to turn around and close the door behind him, but he hesitates. “Can you do me a favor?” he asks.

“Anything,” Pete says.

“Say goodbye before you go.”

They look at each other. “I will,” Pete says.

Chasten nods at that. He breaks the gaze. His silhouette, backlit by the hall light, speaks softly. “See you in a bit, then.”

“Thank you,” Pete says, trying to imbue the words with the depth of meaning he feels.  _ Thank you.  _ He knows he’s failed.

“You’re welcome,” Chasten says. His voice has gone flat, and he closes the door as quietly as possible.


	4. iv.

When he looks in the chipped mirror after his shower, he’s relieved to see that his eyes aren’t very red at all. His hair, though, is hopelessly disheveled. He starts running his hands through it. His body humiliates him by reacting as if the fingers sliding through the strands were Chasten’s. No matter what he does, he can’t make himself look neat. He’s horrified by the possibility of traffic forcing him to show up to an Ash Wednesday observance so obviously freshly fucked.

He knows it’s invasive, but he’s desperate; he pulls open a cabinet drawer and digs in the detritus until he finds a comb. It thrills and guilts him in equal measure to use it without permission.

As he combs, he notices that the mirror is a medicine cabinet. His head is pounding. So after he’s gotten his hair as respectable as he’s going to get it, he puts the comb back, opens the cabinet, resolutely ignores the condoms and lube, unscrews the bottle of Tylenol, and swallows the pill.

As he’s setting the bottle back, he sees cologne. Before he knows what he's doing, he's taking note of the brand, picking it up, and spritzing his wrist. He’s immediately mortified; he’s certain his face has gone completely scarlet; before he can look at himself again, he slams the cabinet door shut and turns off the light.

The living room is gray and shadowy in the pre-dawn. He turns the corner quietly, trying not to think about how he’ll wake Chasten, what it will feel like to touch his warm shoulder, or to stroke soft fabric until he wakes up slow and sleepy, light eyes unfocused.

“Peter,” Chasten says.

He’s awake in the darkness, coffee mug in hand, still dressed in last night’s clothes. He’s sitting on the sofa next to the briefcase and Pete’s coat. He hasn't slept at all.

“Yes?” Pete says. His throat has gone dry.

Chasten sets his coffee on the side-table next to the ticking clock. “I thought we should talk about last night while we both have clothes on.”

Pete’s not sure if he’s more amused or aroused by the brazenness. “What happened last night?”

Chasten stares at him. “You tell me.”

Pete takes a breath. “I think,” he says, and he pauses before continuing carefully. “I think that two lonely people who needed to forget forgot with each other. That’s all.”

Chasten digs, insistent. “Is that all?”

Pete doesn’t answer.

“If that’s all, then…” He trails off. His bravado has melted. “I don’t want to make you late for work.” He swallows. “I had a nice time. Thank you.”

Pete doesn’t want to leave like this. He finds himself trying to buy time, helplessly. “I’m not going back for work. I’m going back for church.”

Chasten laughs. “Church? It’s Wed - ” and halfway through the word, it clearly hits him. “Oh,” he says. “You have to go repent.”

Pete can’t decipher his tone, if it’s pitying or mocking or somehow both. “I do,” he says. He hates how he sounds. “Turns out I have a lot to be repentant for.”

Chasten sighs and leans forward and looks down at the carpet. Pete traces his eyes over gingham. “Obviously this is none of my business, but…” He bites his own lip. Pete finds himself studying that bite intently. “You don’t need to apologize to anyone about last night. Not even God.”

“I won’t.”

Chasten keeps talking as if he hasn’t heard him. “You were right. I am broken. But you were kind, and for a little while I...forgot.” His voice has a little tremor to it. But he shakes it off. “You can’t go back to - wherever it is you’re from and tell God you’re sorry for making me happy.”

“I won’t,” he says again.

Chasten hears him this time. He looks up. “What?”

“I’m not repentant that I’m gay,” he says. “I’m not repentant about last night. I’m  _ definitely  _ not repentant about you.” He hesitates. He’s swimming through a veritable tar pit of guilt, and he despairs that nobody understands the particular flavor of his bitterness. “I’m repentant because I’m not being honest. I’m repentant because I’m too cowardly to deal with the consequences of telling the truth. I’m repentant because I’ve turned into one of those politicians I fucking hate, who cares more about losing their job than doing the right thing.” He hesitates. “That’s what I need to repent for.”

It takes him a few moments, and Chasten’s shocked expression, to realize that he’s let slip what he does for a living.

“Look,” he says, when Chasten says nothing. “In my tradition, Lent isn’t just about repentance. It’s about self-examination. Forty fucking days of it. I’m broken, too, but maybe I don’t need to be. Maybe I can turn my life around. I don’t know. But if I can, I’m going to need every single one of those forty days to figure out how.” His voice cracks under the weight of what he’s realized he has to do. “I’m sorry.” Again, he doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for.

Chasten is quiet. “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about.”

“I’m sorry, anyway.”

Pete is suddenly very tired. It seems as if Chasten is, too. His sharp poise from earlier has completely sapped away. Now he just seems gray and shadowy himself, and for the first time that night, he looks as if he belongs in the run-down apartment. “I just…” He sighs and tries again. “My point is, I wanted to tell you, you made me happy. I feel like you saw me. So while you’re...examining, I just hope you think about what you could bring to someone’s life. Because if you made me happy, you could make  _ anyone  _ happy.” He stops, as if stepping back from something fragile. “That’s all.”

Pete doesn’t know what to say.

Chasten stands then, movements jerky and uncertain. He picks up Pete’s coat and opens it up for him. Pete doesn’t say anything, but he accepts the invitation, turning around and slipping his arms into the sleeves. Even through the thick black layers he can feel Chasten’s warmth behind him. He freezes when he feels fingers at the nape of his neck, adjusting his collar so it lays smoothly.

“If you want to stay or - come back ever, I…” Chasten offers.

Pete thinks about what it would be like to stay. What it would be like to lie on Sunday morning about where he was. What it would be like to come back, bouquet and coming-out editorial in hand as the requisite proof of his seriousness. What it would be like to sleep with him again, and what it would be like to fall asleep vulnerable next to him. What it would be like to keep going the way he’s been going, and to always be afraid of dying alone.

Every outcome, he realizes, terrifies him beyond measure.

He turns around.

“I can’t stay,” he manages, but even as he says the words, he kisses him. He kisses him goodbye in the same way that he so desperately wants to kiss him hello. “I won't forget tonight,” he says. He knows already: through the thaw and spring and melt, with every day growing lighter and longer, lying in his empty bedroom’s blue-gray darkness, suffocating beneath the lonely prairie of his white down comforter, he will remember this, and what it felt like to lay hands on the heat of the small of a back. “But this isn’t a thing I can do,” he says, and “I have a long drive,” he says, “and I - ” and he stops kissing him so that he can start kissing him for what has to be the last time, because he can see the shadow of the light just starting to swell behind the drawn blinds.

Mid-kiss, Chasten breaks away. He takes his hands in his and gently drops them, as if returning them to him. “You keep saying it’s a long way home,” he says, as if the pained silence is asking for an answer, and he unlocks and opens the door.

Pete knows he’s right, so he lets him lead him out of the apartment and away. But he hesitates, too, because he feels he’s forgotten something important. In the sour-smelling hallway, he pats his coat pockets, checking for his keys and his wallet and his phone. They’re safe and accounted for.

He looks at Chasten leaning wearily against the jamb, his hair and shirt still rumpled, hands tensely pushed into his pockets, eyes still clear and beautiful.

“Good night,” they both say at the same time, as if they have an understanding, because they do, and at that, Pete nods and turns and starts walking down the hallway, not allowing himself the luxury of a last memory.

“Peter,” he hears, when he’s waiting for the elevator. He turns around and his heart contracts; he doesn’t know what he’s hoping for. Chasten is there, standing a few feet away. In his outstretched hand is the worn handle of the briefcase. “You can’t forget this,” he says, and just as the elevator doors open, he turns around to walk away.

* * *

He’s in the cathedral parking lot before the service starts, numb, drawing out his gloves from his coat pocket, when he notices a paper crinkle that wasn’t there before. He unfolds a handwritten note:  _ Just in case. _ Below those three words is a phone number with a Chicago area code.

* * *

He kneels at the altar rail for the imposition of ashes.

His heart prays a one-word prayer that isn’t in the prayer book, one that he doesn’t completely understand:  _ please _ .

He hears words whispered warmly, lovingly, to the congregant kneeling beside him. Not a blessing, not a curse: just an elegant, eleven-word observation of what is and what will be. Afterward, she stands, her forehead marked, face somber.

At that, Father Brian steps sideways and in front of him. Pete looks up across the rail into his eyes, then closes his as Brian reaches out a hand for his face.

As the ashes brush against his forehead, Brian murmurs: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Pete’s eyes flutter open. Brian steps aside for the next congregant. “Remember that you are dust,” he tells her, “and to dust you shall return.”

He stands. He feels weak, and tries to smile at the somber woman, but she is clearly lost in the wilderness of her own self, and Pete decides to give her space, and to wish her well silently.

* * *

When he’s back in his car, he sits for a while. He hears happy muffled voices on the other side of the door. He can’t make out what they’re saying, but he feels gratitude for their joy.

He reaches his fingers into his coat pocket and takes out the note.

As he dials the digits into his phone, he realizes he already has them memorized. He presses the paper back into his coat pocket.

He almost presses Call.

His thoughts are hesitant.

Halting.

Finally he tilts the rearview mirror and looks himself in the eyes. His gaze is steady; he doesn’t look away from himself. He can see the cross smudged across his forehead and the phone in his hand, tinged gold now in the morning light.


End file.
